


Mrs. Hudson Stands Against the British Government

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Sassy Mrs. Hudson, Stroppy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 22:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: 221b con flash fiction characters: Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes, Location: 221b,  Phrase: "Sugar is sweet"





	Mrs. Hudson Stands Against the British Government

Mrs Hudson dusted her hands on her apron and opened the door. “Well,” she said with a disapproving sigh, “If it isn’t Mycroft Holmes. To what do we owe the pleasure? Couldn’t be bothered to show up last week when he actually needed you and yet here you are now.”

She did not move aside to let him pass. 

Mycroft looked momentarily discomfited, feeling disconcertingly like a child called out before he adjusted his umbrella and straightened his shoulders. “Mrs Hudson, I was terribly indisposed and Sherlock was in capable hands. I couldn’t just pop back from Belgium to see him through any little crisis. He has you, after all.”

“He has _me_. He doesn’t have John! Hardly a _little_ crisis, I’d say. I know if you’d wanted to, you would have made it.” She fixed him with a glare, hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea what he’s been like? Not eating. Barely sleeping.” Her voice turned hushed. “And what he has been getting up to I don’t even want to know. Men coming and going at all hours. That Wiggins fellow hanging about. Hardly just herbal soothers I can tell you.”

Sawing sounds of what might have once been a violin cut in.

Mrs Hudson glanced behind her up the stairs but still didn’t budge otherwise. “Oh. He’s up already. Can’t have slept more than two hours. Still, better he play now than at half three. Couldn’t sleep a wink night before last for all the caterwauling he did with that thing. 

“Mrs Hudson, please let me up to 221B. My brother is in need of information only I possess. I am reasonably certain some measure of calm may be restored if you allow me up.”

She pursed her lips. “I doubt that very much. I’ll need more than my shortbread biscuits to soothe him if you’re here, even if I dip them in that dark chocolate he likes.”

“It won’t be like last time, I assure you.”

“There are still scorch marks on the wallpaper. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened but insinuated you’d disappeared in a cloud of sulfur and ash.”

Mycroft chuckled dryly. “Not quite the devil he claims. In fact today he may even think of me as a guardian angel. Do let me off this step.”

Mrs. Hudson eyed him shrewdly, nodded once, then stood aside. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I think there are a few rules which can always be counted upon in this world. Water is wet, Sugar is sweet, and Mrs. Hudson will bake to see us through any crisis.” 

“Enough of your cheek, but if you can cure this strop of his, I’ll make you a whole damn cake,” she said, stalking back into her flat and closing the door with a less than gentle snap.

Mycroft sighed and wondered exactly how the promise of baked goods could sound so much like a threat. 

He walked up the seventeen steps, tapping his umbrella as he went so Sherlock would be sure to know who it was even if he hadn’t been listening in on the hushed argument. Mycroft could topple governments with a few quick strokes of his pen, but there was a lingering authority from childhood and seldom was anyone as formidable as Mrs. Hudson when she put her mind to it. 

The screeching and scratching of the bow on the strings ceased abruptly as he reached the top. He rapped sharply on the door with the handle of his umbrella anyway.

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted.

There was a scrape and scuffle as Sherlock threw things about inside, likely trying to get to the door. At last, he jerked it open a crack. “What do you want?”

Mycroft took in the sight of his brother. Sherlock was barefoot, his vest and dressing gown tattered and stained. His fingers were blotched with ink. His eyes and hair were wild.

“I have news of a certain doctor.”

The door opened fully and Mycroft stepped inside.


End file.
